


Tricksters don't follow in their brother's footsteps (unless they do, to their brother's detriment)

by Yenneffer



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Brothers, Gen, Kid Fic, Kid Loki, Kid Thor, Loki Does What He Wants, Pre-Thor (2011), Thor is in touch with his temper, aka little god of mischief, who really isn't as smart as he thinks he is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 05:26:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1333723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yenneffer/pseuds/Yenneffer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor should have known better than to think he could leave Loki behind.</p><p>Pre-Thor, Kid!Fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had a fever all day thanks to yesterday's Wind (it bloody deserves the capital letter) which left me unable to focus of classwork or any of my unfinished fics. Instead I've started a new one. Go figure.

There are little feet – bare in the fresh-dewed grass – that pat-pat-pat follow after you (like little drops of rain, my son, that follow after the storm, do you understand that, my love?)

***

Thor turns, managing to surprise the younger boy who is forming his current entourage. He spreads his arms and mock attacks, barrelling straight into his brother, and gets an armful of a shrieking with laughter nine-year-old.

Like a baby-leviathan, Loki wraps his twig-like arms around Thor’s waist. Together they collapse, a tangle of awkward limbs, all air leaving their chests. Thor hears Loki’s suppressed cry of surprise as he crushes him into the ground.

“Thor!” Little fists made to imitate those of the warriors witnessed by wide eyes in the Great Hall hit the blond brother with utter seriousness and purpose. “Off! Off! Now!”

“As you wish, brother!” exclaims Thor, and he is, indeed, off: his brother, and in the distance. Loki blinks, taken by momentary surprise, before he scrambles up to follow in the elder’s wake.

They run like wildfire, stopping only when they reach the stream that cuts the meadow and then meanders like a lazy snake on a hot day into the coniferous woodland. Thor reaches it first, as is his birthright, and whoops in glee as he falls down to roll in the grass. He soon hears a loud thump behind his back and feels little spiders of fingers digging into his ticklish spots. He jerks. Giggles. Then thrusts his elbow back, into the no-doubt-smug face of his brother.

“We should go on a quest of our own,” Loki decides in his usual no-nonsense tone. He has been hearing tales again, all gold and splendour and camaraderie, and he knows in his little heart that he wants some of his own, too. He sees daily as Thor springs up and up and away, and so far he has made sure not to be left (too far) behind, but he fears the moment is looming near. That fear makes him bold. “Volstagg and Gadur’s adventure did not sound like more than the two of us could handle, brother, and it might be fun to be away from all the prying eyes of our overseers. What say you, Thor?” He rolls onto his belly and tilts his head back, mischievous eyes tracking his brother’s features with a voracious hunger, primal and eager.

He wants this.

Thor rolls his eyes at him, unconcerned with his brother’s wily ways. He might even know he is being pushed into a metaphorical corner (one with barbed wires in every nook and cranny,  and any tempting holes a trap). Who knows? Whether he be aware of the manoeuvring or nor does not matter, for as always, Thor does what he wants. (And his brother’s webs tear in his path as if made by a spider, unable to stop the charging bull.)

“Nay, brother. I need to be back before nightfall, tonight I practise with the others the art of riding in the dark. Besides, little midget, this talk of avoiding prying eyes is all very enticing, but how do you propose to avoid Heimdall’s gaze? The last time we went missing much fuss was made, we were quickly retrieved, and then ‘twas I who suffered Mother’s displeasure for ‘endangering her little sweetmeat’,” the blond boy mocked.

Loki’s muscles went tight with indignation. He made a mental note to get back at his brother later for this slight, but for now he purposely released the tension from his body. He huffed out a loud breath and cast Thor a sly sideways look. “She still calls you her precious sunflower, too, Thor,” he remarked casually, testing the waters.

They were deeper than he’d expected: Thor, having reached the age of being easily offended and sensitive to what he considered to be affront to his not-quite-achieved manly status, saw red and launched himself at Loki, intending to pin him down and wrestle his words away from him.

Somewhat ready for the attack, Loki tries to roll away, but it is another miscalculation: they are lying in close quarters, and Thor has been honing his reflexes during his beginner’s training sessions. Before, Loki’s natural swiftness used to suffice; now, he simply is not quick enough. He feels a hand like a vice around his wrist; he feels a fist punch, once, into the soft and vulnerable area of his abdomen. The cry that is forced out of his mouth surprises even him: it is loud and high, like some squirming baby beast crying for its mother to save it from the descending teeth, from pain that is already pulsing in this central place, his body strung out and reading for more.

It never comes, for Thor must have had enough. He grunts as he rises and Loki is released, but too numb, too dumb to move and run from a threat that stands looming over him. Run, you fool, his mind chants. He doesn’t, not for a very, very long while. It is Thor who first turns away, still red in the face (anger still? embarrassment? pleasure from the victory? Loki’s mind turns, dizzying like the Bifrost itself, urged by a primal need to catalogue the (danger)(stranger) phenomenon before him) and beckons Loki to follow him back as he begins to walk away.

To Loki’s shame, he does. He scrambles up, stumbling over his own legs like a bumbling fool (don’t cry, Loki, don’t ever cry) and races to catch up. He stops just short of evening with his brother (why him, of all the people in Asgard? he could take on _them_ , he rages in silence) and walks out of reach and slightly behind him to not let Thor see his face, which he fears is not nonchalant enough to be safe. He must be better prepared, he scolds himself mentally. Always be prepared.

Aesir are strong. He will get over it. He _will_.

***

Everything seemed to be forgotten by the time the even feast commenced. Loki was solicitous and wilfully eager, turning inquisitive ears and eyes to the people surrounding him. He could hear Thor enthusiastically talking to his friends about the nighttime adventure awaiting them (what kind of adventure is it, with grown-up warriors supervising them, in a big group, following somebody else’s plan for the night? What is so fun about that, Loki couldn’t understand). The elder prince certainly seemed ready and eager to go, for once impatient with all the feasting and merry-making. He’s like a horse chomping at the bit, Loki thought uncharitably as he eyed his brother.

This was one of his learning experiences: observing Thor and seeing how not to act, to leave Asgard with at least one of its princes not a buffoon.

Loki had always employed a backwards hero worship towards his darling brother.

(Fact: Loki has learnt how to lie)

When the time came, the young warriors-in-training that comprise Thor’s group rose and joined their instructor in biding the rest of the tables good night and setting off for the stables.

Loki cheered for his brother loudly enough to be heard and noticed, hiding the smirk blooming on his face behind a goblet of watered wine he was drinking. So far so good, and his brother would not be able to suspect him when he acted all brotherly and supporting. Not to mention he should be seen staying at the dinner table. For... some time still.

Too bad no one would be able to marvel at the genius of his plan.

Loki’s eyes roved over the banquet table, groaning under the weight of roasted meat, its heavy scent mingling with that of fresh sweet fruits, mead and wine flowing freely and untangling already uncomplicated tongues of the festive guests. No one was paying much attention to him, which would have certainly benefitted him if he had been further along in his plan. For at the moment, Loki needed to be remembered as having taken part in the feast. His reasoning seemed sound to him: he couldn’t very well be accused of causing mischief in two places at the same time. (There will come a time, he swears, when he will master the art of illusion sufficiently to achieve this, and he will make sure this skill remains his hidden advantage, unknown to all like a secret dagger up his sleeve.)   

He finished eating the slice of meat and the mushrooms that were left on his plate, sipped at his drink and placed his hands demurely in his lap, conveniently hidden under the table.   


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki leaves the premises by means of an over-complicated scheme that is bound to backfire on him in some way. He doesn't know better yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki's a budding psychopath here. My only excuse is that he is kind of a psychopath in Thor, too, so apparently that's canon. Let's just assume that he started young.

The darkness is near absolute, laying thick on the ground and lengthening the tree branches reaching for their faces. The ride is hard and mad and the young warriors-in-training bear fierce (or so they like to think, though none can see to corroborate that belief) grins at the velocity of their movement. They speed like shadows, at one with the ruling night. And none are as fast, as agile and as determined as the young Prince. If you could but look at him! He leads like an arrow let loose, the beast’s hooves beneath him thundering like the hundred storms and his gleeful laughter like a lead wolf’s calling howl – nay, the call of the moon itself, and they the pack of wolves, obliged to answer and obey its luring light.

That was how they rode.

***

Loki felt the rubbery substance of the oblong instigator he had linked to his truth-inducing spell as he twisted the item in his hands until he felt it heat under his ministrations. He had saturated the wine and mead jugs that were to be served on the courtiers’ tables with a tongue straightening spell, _retta tunga_ , one that he had discovered on one of the long days he spent in the palace library; he remembered that Thor had made several incursions on his study time on that particular day to whine and bemoan their sad fate: the blond Prince had had a massive temper tantrum earlier for not being allowed to play with a real warrior’s steel sword and having to use a wooden children’s toy instead, followed by angry dark clouds rolling over the city, lightning bolts forking at the tops and shaking the foundations of the earth each time they touched the ground. They had both been confined to the Palace for the whole day. (In truth, only Thor had been explicitly confined; Loki had been planning on staying indoors anyway.)

From the corner of his eye he could see a young maiden purse her lips in displeasure and scowl darkly at her male companion, no doubt enraged at his (loud, boisterous) statement that her younger and plainer friend was far more to his liking than her. Loki was disappointed that she didn’t crash the cup she was gripping on his head. Further back an oligarch Vlador, one of the city’s corn suppliers, was boasting loudly about shirking his tax duties while one of the listeners was trying to outdo him with his tales of petty thievery. Someone admitted to being in lust with someone else’s daughter or, even worse, son. One lady shared her scandalising remarks on half the table’s male populace to the gossip-spreading eager ears of bored ladies sitting on the other side of the table.

People were leaning to all sides to catch as many snippets as they could, only to be stopped by a hidden truth slipping off their own tongues, often to the outrage of another occupant of the table.

Aesir do not, generally, take their outrage quietly and without fuss. Soon both cups and plates are flying, pieces of food falling off midflight, someone has his neighbour in a choke-hold, a lady of good breeding stabs her latest paramour with a fork for cheating on her with her sister, a brother slugs brother after learning the latter tattle told on him to their father in their youth, a sister kisses her brother who has been harbouring a deep affection for her for years.

Loki made sure to be caught grinning like a god possessed, delighted and somewhat impressed at the chaos he managed to spread. His mother cast him a disapproving glance as she dipped down to lift the spell instigator he had accidentally on purpose dropped, making sure that it was visible but not too obvious.

So far everything went according to plan.

“Loki,” she frowned at him, holding the blue oblong object up in accusation. He squirmed guiltily, looking down in perceived shame. It had been a gift from her, to help him focus his spell-casting. She did not know he no longer needed it – aye, it made channelling his seidhr easier, but he could already do without. A good thing, since he was sure she was going to confiscate the thing.

Sometimes, his insides churned with guilt for lying to her. Sometimes he felt she was the only one who understood him, who believed in him. Chipping away at that faith made his eyes sting and his muscles tremble with fear; but only when he was on his own, in the privacy of his chambers. When others could see him he presented a cheerful front, the always-mischievous child (that he sometimes wanted to stay).

“That was wrong of you, child. I am very disappointed with your conduct today,” she stated firmly, making sure to hold his eye and show him her sincerity. He hang his head and she sighed, looking to where her lord husband was busy interrogating one of the confessors: apparently the man – a councillor of his – had had insidious dealings with the Dark Elves behind everyone’s back. Fortunately for Loki it looked as if Odin would be busy for a long while still; it was left to Frigga to dole out punishment to their mischief-making offspring. The Queen bowed her head slightly to the King and rose to leave, pushing her youngest with a firm hand to indicate he was to precede her. The rowdy crowd parted for her like particles of space before the omni-coloured, magnificent Bridge.

“You will stay in your rooms, with no visitors, no contraband from the library. I will take your books away, to be returned at the end of your punishment. That is two days away, starting from now.”

“Yes, Mother. I am sorry for upsetting you,” he whispered when they reached the door to his room. She ruffled his dark hair and gave him a gentle nudge inside. She collected a few books that he owned – not that many, yet, though the possessiveness which he felt towards them told him he would grow up to be a collector of rare and valuable tomes (he knows himself, and what he does not as of yet know he can guess at) – and after bidding him a good night she turned to leave. He heard the door close and lock behind him, his Mother no doubt pocketing the key afterwards.

As far as everyone in the palace was concerned, Loki was locked in.

***

Stretch. Fake a yawn. Turn off the light and shuffle to bed on tired legs. Lay down. Close your eyes. And count down.

100, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 91, 90, 89, 88, 77 ,76, 75, 74, 73, 72, 71, 70... Even your breaths, deep and steady now. 69,68, 67, 66, 65, 64, 63, 62, 61, 60, 59, 58, 57, 56, 55, 54, 53, 52, 51, 50, 49, 48... Patience, now. 47, 46, 45, 44, 43, 42, 41, 40, 39, 38, 37, 36, 35, 34, 33, 32, 31, 30, 29, 28, 27... Ease the tension in the muscles, slowly, relax your face now. 26, 25, 24, 23, 22, 21, 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9,8, 7... Fake the sleep, like a tired child. 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1...

He slowly rises, letting his eyesight adjust to the darkness permeating his chambers. Reaching down he retrieves a bag he packed earlier, with all the necessaries for his oncoming venture. He feels the thrill go through him at the thought. Aye, he wanted to experience it with his brother, but the not-naive part of him knows Thor would never appreciate the cleverness of what is to come. No matter, though. They will share the latter part of his scheme, one that should be more to his brother’s liking. He will show Thor what a marvel his idea was. From the belly of his bag he slips out a translucent key, its insides swirling and pushing at its edges. Vatnlykill, a water key, one he pilfered from an ambassador from Alfheim, useful in getting in – or, in this particular case, out – of locked places. As long as there was a keyhole to put it in, and no particularly powerful enchantments warding the doors, it was an infallible opening tool. He inserts the malleable key into the keyhole and whispers a command, Open. The water enchanted inside starts to push outside, its mass increasing, and with it rises the pressure on the lock; it splinters like wood, the locking device ruined.

He waits a moment longer, listening intently if anyone was alerted by the noise – it was short-lasting and sudden, but still loud in the near-silence of the slumbering palace. When no one comes to investigate, he slips out the door, closing it behind him and pulling another object out of his bag. A paintbrush, with whisper-soft badger hair dipped in a reality-inducing potion that covers the strangeness and out-of-placeness, a first step in learning how to create illusions. He smears the paintbrush over the damaged part of the door, knowing that anyone who would look upon it would – unless they touched it – see what they expected: a door, nothing out of the ordinary. Very few people looked deeper into the reality that surrounded them. Thus a few simple lines of unreality covering the true image would suffice for his purpose: stave off any pursuit that could disturb his plans.

Once done, he slips away, melting into the vast hallways, a swift-footed phantom intent on leaving the secure and known behind itself. Do not overact, Loki scolds himself. The tense energy is thrumming in his veins like a venomous presence, and at last he understands how his brother can act before thinking: it feels as if his veins were to burst if he kept it in a second longer. He keeps close to the walls, sneaking past high pillars with its tops vanishing in the vaulted ceiling, as if the gathered darkness were a fog able to consume the glimmer of precious gold.

A wide gilded gate gapes before him invitingly, its lure the sweetest lie of that night. There were bound to be guards stationed outside. The only grace on his side is that their main purpose was to keep intruders out. He counts on their attention to be focused the other way but he has to be doubly cautious at this crucial stage of his daring bid for freedom. He grins at the challenge, a wet tongue (his saliva forms as if he were a wolf presented with a juicy hunt) sneaking past clenched teeth, scraping on them with purpose. The slight pulse of pain anchors him in the moment, sharpens his focus.

A high shriek cuts through the dimmed air outside from about fifty yards away from the stationed guards. The young trickster melds with the cold stony wall near the gate opening in the tense silence that follows, and then – finally! – he hears as the man standing on the other side of the wall moves away to investigate. To hope that both of the guardsmen would leave their post would be a folly in the scheming, but the one who remains behind stays focused mostly on his companion and on what possible danger may be approaching from the outside. He ignores the shadow that detaches itself from inside the palace, not a whisper of sound following in its passage, the dark trickster-head hidden in the bowels of darkness provided by the hood of his grey cloak.

The second guard returns, shaking his head. “Ho! Twas naught but a big rat, snarled in particularly nasty vines. Was making a ruckus of itself, a whole bush was covered in the beast’s blood by the time I reached it. I stabbed it in its ugly head, no sense in letting it die in agony and disturb the night for any longer than it already did.”

His companion only grunts in reply.

Loki caught that rat earlier in the day, left it under a slight sleeping suggestion, tangled in sharp vines and prickly thorns. When he now lifted the suggestion the creature woke, terrified and pained, to make a – to borrow the guard’s expression – ruckus and by that provide its captor with a way out.

Brilliant, so far, Loki congratulates himself. 

On the familiar paths made strange and fair he walks on silent feet, a figure bent low like a gnarled dwarf-tree that has left behind its rooted place. His destination known, his stops calculated, he is sure of himself. There is not much left to do now.

He is so very close now.

Crouching down behind a thick-leaved bush some distance from the royal stables Loki rummages through his bag, locates a pack of herbs that should mask his scent from the horses so their snorting won’t alert the stablehands. He rubs it into his skin vigorously and sneaks to the paddock besides the stable building. There is a magnificent warhorse inside, a stallion of a black coat so lustre it seemed almost blue, with a few of his mares grazing around. The massive beast raises its head at Loki’s soft footsteps, nostrils flaring, but his has trick paid off: the stallion remains silent, just watching the little visitor intently.

He works efficiently, sawing at the lock – not breaking it completely, no, that would defeat the purpose of staying undetected; one look at the clear-sawed through lock and everyone would suspect a trick (raising questions, always with the questions) but enough for the bulk of the charger to break free – and, upon judging it sufficient, he withdraws a sweet-scented apple out of his bag, the fruit landing a few feet away from the pleased animal. When he sees it has finished munching happily on it he proffers another one. The black horse pricks its ears, agitated, as Loki throws the apple with all his (admittedly not so great) might towards a copse of trees.

He moves away just in time as the horse – bred and trained for battle as it is – charges straight on at the meagre boards blocking its way. They break in half  on impact with the animal’s chest and it runs free, the mares following soon after. In the confusion of horses running wild and stablehands trying to catch them Loki circles the paddock on the side opposite from the panicking workers and slips inside the building.

With time catching up fast on his heels he gathers a saddle and reins, rushes to the box which houses his fine-boned palomino mare. The gentle golden horse dances happily at the sight of her master, white tail swishing. Loki enters the box, pats his companion-in-mischief on her pale mane and gets working on saddling her while she eats an apple he has given her.

Loki takes her by the reins and sneaks (rushes) out of the still-unguarded stables, tugging for her to hurry. He only allows himself a calmer breath once he has reached a cover of trees, where he mounts and sets off – on an adventure, a splendid and thrilling time that would reconnect him with his brother, bind them tighter than ever. For what were the ties of blood? You cannot choose family; it makes friends so much dearer to your heart, for they are yours and yours alone, bound by hardships and smiles and _choice_. 

Loki has decided that Thor will become his brother-in-arms, in addition to being his blood brother. They shall stand together against the whole of created universe.

(This is Loki’s choice. He does not dare consider what Thor’s might be.)

***

There is no wind in the deep of the woods, but he creates his own as he rides, the air itself unable to keep up.

He does not dare to tug on the reins to slow down the bay he’s riding. He tried it earlier, and tells himself the sting of tears was the result of the rush of wind beating on his eyes. Not fear that he couldn’t stop.

That he would never be able to stop, but instead he would ride these woods for eternity, until he grows old, and that his horse would never tire, would never slow down.

They ride tirelessly. He has lost his companions a while back, time being meaningless in the maelstrom of feelings beating in his chest. First there was a sense of camaraderie born from the shared experience and exhilaration at being the fastest, the first; the sheer joy at the freedom offered by the dark night’s silence interrupted only by the hooves of his horse and his breath loud in his ears, which was suddenly such an intimate sensation. Then came the confusion. (And the never-fear.)

If Thor had a mind to look back – and if he had an affinity for magic, which he does not – he would see a faint trail of silvery-smoke dust, forming a trail for his younger brother to follow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to visit me at my tumblr: heathleaves.tumblr.com


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